Another lonely, sad day. Another day full of empty smiles and hollow words.

I needed a place where people would like me for who I was, not just because I was pretty. The weight of it all became too much, and I broke down in my room, crying. No one in my life felt real, and there was no one I could truly rely on. I felt completely alone.

To cope, I usually poured my emotions into writing or composing songs, letting the words and melodies speak the feelings I couldn’t. Suddenly, an idea struck me. What if I created an Instagram account to release my covers? I could share my music without revealing my face, ensuring that people would notice me for my talent and not just for how I looked. I wanted to be heard for who I really was.

Excitement bubbled up inside me. I created the account, using my favorite idol's face as a claim and a new name that felt safe. For the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful. Maybe now, people would listen to me and befriend me because of my music, not because of my appearance. Maybe I could finally be like everyone else.

I uploaded my first reel: a cover of "You Dian Tian." I wasn't expecting much, but in an instant, it reached 1,000 views. People flooded in, liking and commenting on my voice. The compliments were real. For the first time, I felt genuinely seen.

That night, I went to bed happier than I had been in a long time. When I woke up the next morning, I felt like a new person. I stood taller, ready to face the world. As I got dressed for school, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside me had shifted. I was no longer invisible. I had finally found a way to stand up for myself, and I was happy.

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of music, recording, and the slow, steady growth of my Instagram account. Every night, I would sit in my room with my mic and laptop, pouring my heart into every cover I posted. Each time I hit "upload," I felt a little less alone.

The comments kept coming—people praising my voice, asking for more songs, even sharing their own stories of how music had helped them through tough times. I could feel something changing in me. I wasn’t just singing anymore. I was connecting.

And that’s all I really wanted. I didn’t need fame or attention for my looks. I just wanted to find people who cared about the same things I did, people who would listen to my music and maybe, just maybe, become real friends.

One evening, as I was scrolling through my messages, I saw something different. A girl around my age had sent me a long message:

"Hi Hana, I just wanted to say your cover of 'You Dian Tian' really spoke to me. I’ve been going through a rough time, and hearing your voice makes me feel less alone. Thank you for sharing your music. Do you ever want to chat? I’m always looking for more people who love music as much as I do!"

My heart skipped a beat. This was what I had been hoping for. Someone who wanted to talk, not because of what I looked like, but because of my music.

I quickly typed out a response:

"Thank you so much for your kind words! I’d love to chat sometime. Music has always been my way of dealing with things too. Let’s talk!"

It felt surreal, this small exchange with a stranger who, in a way, felt like a friend. I kept replaying it in my head, wondering if this was the start of something real.

The next day at school, I felt a shift. I still walked the halls like any other day, but I wasn’t so invisible anymore—not to myself. I knew that out there, beyond the walls of this school, people were starting to recognize me for something that was mine alone: my voice. And even though no one here knew the truth, it gave me a quiet confidence.

Later that evening, I got another message from the same boy. His name was Zhi Hao, and as we talked more, I learned that she was also into covers, but he didn’t have the confidence to post them yet. He shared with me how scared he was of being judged, and I understood completely. We bonded over our love of music and our desire to be ourselves without fear.

Over time, I started getting similar messages from others—people who loved the same songs I did, people who were struggling, just like me, to find their place. It was strange, but through this anonymous online world, I was beginning to feel less alone than I had in real life.

But even as I grew more comfortable online, the pressure to reveal myself began to build. Some of my followers started asking, “Who are you really?” or “When will you show your face?” I couldn’t blame them. Everyone else was out there, putting themselves on display, and here I was, hiding behind someone else’s face.

Hao asked me once during one of our late-night chats:

“Why don’t you just show yourself? I’m sure people would love you even more if they knew who you were.”

I hesitated, staring at the message for a while before replying:

"I don’t know... I guess I’m scared that if they see me, they won’t care about my music anymore."

It was the truth. Deep down, I still worried that people would see me the same way they did at school—just another pretty face, or worse, that they’d see right through me, back to the lonely girl who never quite fit in. I wanted them to know the real me first.

Hao’s reply was thoughtful:

“I get that. But one day, when you’re ready, I hope you do. The people who love your music will stick around, no matter what.”

His words stuck with me, but I wasn’t ready to take that step yet. For now, being "Hana" was enough. I was making friends through my music, real friends, and that was more than I ever thought I’d have.

As the weeks went on, I continued posting, chatting with new followers, and slowly, quietly, building a community. It wasn’t the glamorous life of a famous singer or idol, but it was mine. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

A week had passed, and the bright feeling that had settled inside me ever since Hao came into my life only grew stronger. He was more than just a follower or another person in my DMs—he had become my closest friend, someone I could confide in, someone who understood me beyond the surface. Our conversations weren’t just about music anymore; we talked about everything.

It was funny how someone I’d never met in person could feel more real to me than the people I saw every day at school. Every morning, I’d catch myself smiling as I opened my phone, eagerly checking for his messages. I’d never felt this way about anyone before—not a friend, not even myself. I’d always been so guarded, afraid that people only saw me for my looks. But with Hao, none of that mattered. He didn’t even know what I looked like.

One afternoon, after school, I rushed home, excited to see what Hao had been working on. Over the past few days, he’d been talking non-stop about starting his own cover page. I could tell he was nervous, but that was part of what made me feel so connected to him. I knew those nerves all too well.

As I settled into my room, I saw a new message pop up on my screen:

Hao: “Hey, I’m thinking of covering ‘First Love’ by Hikaru Utada. What do you think?”

I smiled at the message. It was one of my favourite songs, a ballad full of raw emotion, heartbreak, and nostalgia. It was also a challenging song to cover, but I knew Hao could pull it off.

Me: “That’s perfect! It’s such a beautiful song, and your voice will be amazing on it.”

I could feel my heart racing as I typed. For some reason, I was more excited about Hao’s cover than I had been about my own songs recently. There was something thrilling about watching someone else’s journey unfold, knowing that I had played a small part in inspiring them.

Hao: “Thanks, Hana. I’m kind of nervous, though. What if people don’t like it?”

His words struck a chord with me. I had asked myself that same question a thousand times before every post, every cover. But somehow, saying it out loud to him made the fear seem smaller, more manageable.

Me: “They’ll love it. And even if they don’t, it’s not about them. It’s about you doing what you love.”

There was a pause before his next message came through.

Hao: “You always know what to say. I don’t think I would’ve had the guts to do this without you.”

My face flushed as I read his words. There it was again—that warmth, the feeling of being needed, of being someone’s inspiration. It made me feel like I was doing something right for once, like I mattered in a way that went beyond just being another pretty face.

That evening, we stayed up late, talking about everything from our favorite musicians to the pressures of school. The more we talked, the more I realized how much we had in common. Both of us used music as a way to escape, to express the things we couldn’t say out loud. Both of us had felt invisible in different ways, and yet, somehow, we had found each other.

The next morning, I woke up with a sense of anticipation buzzing inside me. Today was the day Hao was going to post his first cover. I could tell he was nervous, but I had complete faith in him. He had sent me a rough version of the song the night before, and it was beautiful—his voice full of emotion, perfectly capturing the bittersweet ache of the lyrics.

As soon as I got out of bed, I checked my phone for his message. Sure enough, there it was:

Hao: “It’s up. I’m officially a cover artist now, haha.”

I grinned and immediately clicked on the link he sent me, excited to see his profile. The cover photo was simple but elegant, just a shot of a sunset over the city skyline. The kind of image that made you feel nostalgic for something you couldn’t quite put into words. The video itself was equally stunning—his voice clear and heartfelt as he sang the first lines of “First Love.”

As I watched, I couldn’t help but feel proud. He had done it. Despite his nerves, despite his doubts, he had taken that first step, just like I had not too long ago. And now, he was part of this little world we had created together—a world where music connected us in ways nothing else could.

I quickly sent him a message:

Me: “You did it! I’m so proud of you, Hao. It’s beautiful. I can’t stop listening.”

His response came almost instantly:

Hao: “Really? You’re not just saying that, right?”

Me: “I mean it. You sound incredible. I knew you would.”

There was a pause, and then his next message made my heart skip a beat:

Hao: “Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve had the courage to post it if it wasn’t for you. You’ve made me feel like I can actually do this. Like I’m not alone.”

I stared at the screen, the words sinking in. Hao and I had become more than just friends through our shared love of music. We had become each other’s support system, encouraging one another to keep going, to keep creating, even when it felt like the world wasn’t listening.

As the days went by, Hao’s cover started gaining traction, just like mine had. He was thrilled, sending me updates every few hours about how many views it had got, how many new followers he had gained. It was amazing to see him so excited, so full of life. It made me realize that, in a way, we were both on this journey together, even if we were walking slightly different paths.

But despite the growing success, there was still a part of me that couldn’t fully shake the fear. Every time someone commented on Hao’s cover, praising his voice, I couldn’t help but wonder: Would they still care if they knew who he really was? If they knew who I really was?

It was the same question I had asked myself a thousand times before. I still hadn’t shown my face, still hadn’t revealed my true identity to my followers. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust them—it was that I didn’t trust myself. I was afraid that once people knew the real me, they would lose interest, that they would see me as just another girl trying to make it in a world that didn’t care about girls like me.

One night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought about the message Hao had sent me earlier that day:

“You make me feel like I’m not alone.”

It was a simple statement, but it carried so much weight. Hao had come into my life at a time when I felt completely invisible, when I didn’t think anyone would ever see me for who I really was. And now, here he was, telling me that I had given him the courage to pursue his dreams. It was overwhelming in the best way possible.

But at the same time, it terrified me. What if, one day, he asked to meet in person? What if he wanted to know who I really was, beyond the screen, beyond the music? Would he still see me the same way?

As these thoughts swirled in my mind, my phone buzzed on the night stand. It was a message from Hao.

Hao: “Hey, I was thinking... have you ever considered doing a duet? Like, we could cover a song together. What do you think?”

I stared at the message, my heart racing. A duet? It was a simple idea, but it felt like a huge step. Collaborating on a cover would mean even more interaction, even more connection. But could I do it? Could I let someone get that close?

After a few moments, I took a deep breath and typed back:

Me: “I’d love that. Let’s do it.”

The days after agreeing to the duet with Hao were filled with anticipation, excitement, and a tinge of anxiety I couldn't quite shake. This wasn’t just a song anymore. It felt like something more—a bridge between us, one that would pull us closer. I was excited, but the fear of getting too close still gnawed at me. I couldn’t let him see who I really was, not yet.

After school the next day, I hurried home, threw my backpack onto the floor, and pulled out my phone. Sure enough, there was a message from Hao waiting for me.

Hao: “I’ve been thinking about songs we could do together. What about ‘Rewrite the Stars’? I know it’s kind of overdone, but I think we could make it our own.”

‘Rewrite the Stars’? I smiled to myself. Of course he would pick that song. It was a powerful duet, full of longing and hope, but also about two people who believed they couldn’t be together because of the obstacles between them. In a strange way, it felt fitting. Here we were, connecting through music, yet separated by the walls we had built around ourselves. My anonymity, his uncertainties—we both had barriers we weren’t sure how to overcome.

I replied quickly.

Me: “I love that idea! Let’s do it. When do you want to start?”

Almost immediately, his response came through.

Hao: “I was thinking maybe we could each record our parts, and then I’ll mix them together? I know it’s hard to harmonize without being in the same room, but we can try!”

The idea of trying to create something together, despite the distance, was exhilarating. I could already imagine our voices intertwining, even though we had never met in real life. It was a strange, surreal feeling to be working so closely with someone I had never even seen face-to-face.

I got to work right away. Recording my parts wasn’t difficult—I had done it so many times before—but there was something about this duet that made my heart race. It wasn’t just about the song. It was about Hao. I realized then just how much he had come to mean to me. Even though we hadn’t known each other long, his friendship had become something I relied on, something I looked forward to every day. He made me feel less alone, less invisible.

I recorded my lines, trying to imagine what it would feel like if we were singing together in the same room. In some strange way, it felt intimate, as if we were sharing something deeply personal without ever having to say it out loud. By the time I finished, my cheeks were flushed, and my heart was pounding.

I sent him the files, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Me: “Okay, my parts are done! Your turn!”

A few minutes later, he replied.

Hao: “Wow, that was fast! I’ll start recording tonight. Can’t wait to hear how it turns out.”

The next few days passed in a blur of anticipation. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was Hao telling me he had finished his parts. I found myself thinking about him more and more, wondering what his life was like outside of our conversations. I didn’t even know what he looked like, but somehow, that didn’t matter. We connected in ways that felt deeper than appearances. Music was our language.

Finally, after what felt like forever, I got the message I had been waiting for.

Hao: “It’s done! I’ve mixed the track. I’m so nervous, though. Want to hear it?”

My heart leapt into my throat. This was it—the moment our voices would come together, even if only digitally.

Me: “Of course! Send it over!”

I sat there, phone in hand, waiting for the file to come through. When it finally did, I took a deep breath and hit play.

The opening chords of “Rewrite the Stars” filled my room, soft and delicate. Then, my voice came in, the familiar lyrics spilling out like a quiet confession. It was strange hearing myself like this, knowing that Hao’s voice would soon join mine. And when it did, I felt a thrill shoot through me.

His voice was rich, deeper than I had imagined, and full of emotion. Our voices blended together in a way that felt effortless, as if we had been singing together for years. There was something magical about it, something that made my chest tighten with a mix of emotions I couldn’t quite name. We sounded... perfect together.

As the song ended, I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly, a smile spreading across my face. It was better than I could have imagined.

I quickly typed out a response.

Me: “Hao, this is amazing! We sound so good together! I’m honestly kind of speechless right now.”

There was a pause, and then his reply came through.

Hao: “You really think so? I was so nervous the whole time I was mixing it, wondering if I was doing it right. But hearing you say that makes me feel better.”

Me: “No, seriously, it’s perfect. I love it.”

Hao: “I’m glad. It feels... special, you know? Like this is more than just a cover.”

I blinked at the screen, my heart fluttering. More than just a cover? Was he feeling it too? That connection, that sense that there was something deeper between us than just a shared love for music?

I hesitated for a moment before typing.

Me: “Yeah, it does feel special. I’m really glad we did this.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything. But somehow, the quiet between us felt comfortable, like we didn’t need to fill the space with words.

Then, Hao sent another message.

Hao: “So... when are we posting it?”

I froze. Posting it. Of course. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To share our duet with the world. But the thought of it made my stomach twist. This was different from my other covers. This was something personal, something that felt almost too intimate to share with strangers.

But I couldn’t let Hao down. He was so excited about it, and I couldn’t back out now.

Me: “Whenever you’re ready.”

Later that evening, we decided to post the duet together. We synchronized our uploads, counting down from three and pressing “post” at the same time. My heart raced as I watched the screen, waiting for the first comments to roll in.

The response was immediate. People loved it.

“This is incredible! Your voices blend so well together!”

“You guys need to do more duets!”

“This is seriously beautiful. I can’t stop listening.”

Every new comment felt like a rush of adrenaline, but there was one comment that caught my eye and made my heart stop.

“Who is this guy? You two have such amazing chemistry. Are you a couple?”

My breath hitched, and my eyes stayed glued to the comment. I didn’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did. The idea that people could see something between us that I wasn’t even sure about myself... It was confusing. I wasn’t even sure what I felt for Hao, but hearing others pick up on something made me question everything.

Hao’s next message broke through my thoughts.

Hao: “Wow, people really love it. This is crazy.”

I swallowed hard, trying to push the comment from my mind.

Me: “Yeah, I’m kind of overwhelmed, honestly. But it’s a good feeling.”

Hao: “Definitely. I feel like we’ve really got something special here. Maybe we should do more duets? What do you think?”

My heart skipped a beat. More duets? The thought of it both thrilled and terrified me. Part of me wanted nothing more than to keep collaborating with him, to keep feeling that connection, that closeness. But another part of me was scared. Scared of getting too close, scared of what it all meant.

Me: “I’d love that. Let’s do it.”

Over the next few weeks, Hao and I worked on more covers together. Each one felt like a step deeper into our friendship, into whatever this was becoming between us. And while I loved every moment of it, the questions that had been nagging at me from the start only grew louder.

What if he wanted to meet in person? What if he asked me to reveal my face? Could I keep hiding behind my screen forever?

But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside. I wasn’t ready to face them. All I knew was that I didn’t want to lose Hao. Whatever this was, it felt too important, too precious to risk.

For now, the music was enough.